Hands and Feet
by Punkin09
Summary: Sam and Dean have always been close, but in the wake of their father's death it seems they are more out of synch than ever.It all comes to a head when Dean's reckless behavior puts Sam's life in jeopardy, but can he make things right?
1. Chapter 1

**Title taken from the quote, "brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet." This will probably end up being three parts. I've finished the second already, and plan on starting the third tomorrow. It could end up being four, though, you know how muses are. Untamable little suckers lol. I was having trouble finding inspiration for a hurt Sam fic, but then I was like, "Jenna, just write what you like. There's nothing wrong with that, other people like the same things, so just write what you like." So, you know what, I took my own advice haha. And voila, this bunny was born. Set in early season two (oh the angst) from Sam's first person POV (which is new for me, but quite refreshing). This is a pre thank you to all readers, and the loyal reviewers whom I adore happy reading! P.S. I love both boys, but as this is from Sam's point of view, Dean may come across as insensitive, but they are both hurting and are both dealing with John's death. He will redeem himself, though, I promise!**

** -Punkin**

It's not that I begrudge him for finding an outlet for all that emotion he keeps built up inside like it's his damn job. I swear it's not that at all.

It's the fact that watching him sleep off a hangover is pretty much par for the course ever since dad…well, you know.

What really gets me is that Dean can be so content with getting himself shit faced and throwing himself into an unwarranted bar fight without even a cursory glance in my direction, while I silently freak out and lose my mind over every little thing he does now a days. He says he's fine, though, like I should take every word that comes out of his mouth at face value and follow it like the god damn bible. 'Winchester gospel', like that would ever happen…

In fact, he says he's fine so often I don't even ask anymore. "That's what you're head stone is going to say," I want to tell him, "_Why are you staring? Can't you see that I'm fine?" _Sometimes I don't even look at him and suddenly he's riding my ass telling me to _stop_ riding his. Which I'm not, by the way. Not any more than is necessary to keep him from throwing himself over the edge.

Don't get me wrong, I get it, I really do. You've no idea, actually, how much I get that I'm not wanted right now. AT ALL. I get that maybe I'm hurting Dean as much as I'm helping him, perhaps even more than I'm helping because a fat lot of good I've done so far.

All I've accomplished since Dad…well, you know….anyway, all I've done is manage to prove myself so transparent that Dean called me on it (because who am I kidding? I'm a terrible son, always have been, and just because dad is…well, I just can't change that fact and I can't make things right now that he's gone. _Too little, too late_), and then, I go and dump more of my stupid issues on my brother and drive him into beating the living daylights out of the Impala. Next time, I'm sure it's going to be my face that gets caught in the cross fires…not that I don't deserve it. At this point I'll take anything from Dean that illustrate he still has emotions towards me, even if they're all on the rather negative side.

All of this is just more things to add to my never ending list of failures, right? 'Sammy's book of screw ups', that's what they'll call my memoir. Couldn't save Jess, couldn't save Max, couldn't save that poor possessed girl, Meg, couldn't save countless others in between and couldn't even save…Dad. Each and every one of their deaths, I know they're my fault.

Dean's made it all too clear that he knows Dad's death is my fault as well. But I can't leave; I can't run from this mess I've created. I owe it to my brother to help him through this, whether he wants me to or not. He's all I've got left, and I'm afraid, more than anything am I afraid, that when it all comes down to it, I won't be able to save him either.

I've seen Dean angry in the past; I've seen Dean angry at _me _before too, but this rage he's emanating of late? This desperate, forever present wrath simmering just below the surface, coiled to strike? It's brand spanking new, and downright terrifying. It's bred from a wild and reckless part of my older brother, a part of him that does not heed to morals, to family, or to personal well being. It's like a parasite that's latched on and Dean is just handing over the reins.

I wonder if he realizes how late he's sleeping. I've been sitting here for hours now, had been sitting all night, waiting for Dean to return from his bar of choice. He'd stumbled in around three A.M., at which point I'd helped him over to his bed, even after he swatted away my assisting hands. Couldn't really blame him, though, he _was_ considerably intoxicated and if the bruises on his knuckles were anything to go by, he'd dealt with some sore losers at the pool table. Much to my chagrin, and blatant disapproval, Dean had been making his hustling a good deal more obvious than customary lately, so I barely bat an eye lash when I have to deal with angry bar patrons demanding their money back. Somehow, I always take care of it before it gets ugly, unbeknownst to Dean. He'd just try and pick another fight, of course. I see no reason to pander to his sudden need to be bloody and scary _all_ of the time.

God, what I'd do for a smile…a genuine one, the one he used to give me after affectionately insulting me. Does that sound weird? Selfish? As per usual…I've always been the selfish one.

I know it's not healthy to be foregoing sleep like this, especially just to keep an eye on my dead to the world, hangover plagued sibling. The truth is sleep hasn't been very amenable to me ever since the crash. Moreover, my dreams haven't either. If it's not Dad I watch burning on the ceiling, its Jess. If it's not Jess, it's Dean. I know this is my guilty conscious working over time. Dean always said I couldn't do anything half assed. They tell me the same things over and over again…things I already know and remind myself of every second of every damn day. I bring death and misery with me everywhere I go and to everyone I meet. That's what's going to be on _my_ head stone, "_Don't get too close, you might die."_ Maybe I'll make a T-shirt.

I've cleaned the weapons twice now, straightened the room three times, and researched countless possible hunts (not that I'm about to put them on Dean's radar, considering where his head is). When I was hanging the towels up in the bathroom, I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror, an act I'm usually pretty good at avoiding. Let's just say I look about as good as I feel. My stomach aches at the thought that normally, Dean would be strapping me down to a bed and practically chewing my food for me if I looked this worn out. I guess it's time to at last throw my last definition of 'normal' out the window, huh? Shouldn't be this hard…

The only thing left I can think of doing is the laundry, because I've just _got_ to do something. Watching the puddle of drool form on Dean's pillow is less than entertaining and more than a little saddening. Even though I'm certain he won't be awaking any time soon, I leave a note anyway, a part of me hoping that if he were to stir and find me gone, he'd still be concerned. I leave a bottle of pain killers and a glass of water beside his head on the side table, in easy reach in case they're needed in my absence. There are donuts, too, but I doubt Dean will be up for much eating. Nonetheless, sometimes the sentiment cheers him up. Or maybe it just reminds him of my unwanted presence…

I leave like a fire's lit under my ass, arms full with our duffel bags of dirty clothes. I should have been paying closer attention to who might have been waiting for one of us in the parking lot, I should have grabbed my gun from my bed, I should have been more prepared. But once again, another famous Sammy screw up, because honestly, I can't even do the laundry without landing myself in trouble. And that is exactly why I manage to get everyone killed. I don't have much time to contemplate all of my prominent short comings (because trust me, you _do_ need time) before something hard slams into the back of my skull.

White splashes across my vision, Dean's duffle falling from my numb, unfeeling fingers. My knees buckle but before I can fall, strong, unyielding hands keep me from toppling and instead ruthlessly pin me back against the adjacent wall. Dean is so going to kill me…assuming my attacker doesn't do him the favor first.

_TBC…_

**I really enjoyed doing this from Sam's POV, it was more like I was talking to the reader rather than telling a story, so it was a fun change **


	2. Chapter 2

**As so promised I present part 2! Yay! Thanks so much for the response to the first chapter, it really helped when I worked on part three, which may be broken into two parts due to length or if more is demanded ;) This chapter is a bit heart breaking and I had a difficult time being so mean to Sammy. But, alas, it had to be done. Happy reading! P.S. remember I said Dean would redeem himself, keep that in mind for this part lol…**

**-punkin**

As my vision clears, I find myself face to face with a huge, strapping man equipped with muscles practically bursting through his thread bare sleeves and whose moustache took a wrong turn right around 'horseshoe'. He's exactly the type Dean would peg to be a hell's angel wannabe. Unfortunately, he's also the type my darling older brother appears to get a kick out of enraging by means of cheating them out of their hard earned, and no doubt as equally as swindled, money.

He's smiling at me, beady eyes akin to black pits and teeth stained from years of beer and coffee consumption. Or at least I smell as much on his breath. After all, you don't get this close to someone without consequently acquainting one's self with their more 'unappealing' qualities. Pssh, please, is this guy serious? I'm going to knock him on his ass…

Movement from behind him catches my attention. I inwardly groan as I realize that my 'attacker' now must be upgraded to 'attack_ers'._ Plural. Multiple. In other words, my odds of escaping this without serious injury just plummeted to slim to none. There are two more men, slightly smaller than the one currently pinning me, but formidable foes nonetheless. Especially considering the fact that I am weaponless, sleep deprived and now quite possibly suffering from a concussion thanks do the crow bar the guy farthest to my right is tossing from one hand to the other (really? A crow bar?) Isn't that just my luck? Dean has to go and piss off an entire gang, yet somehow I am the one being punished for it.

Suddenly, it's not the fact that I can't deal with a violent, drag out fist fight…it's the fact that I'm so god damn tired.

Blood trickles down my neck. I can feel it matting in my hair, snaking its way across my skin and soaking into my coat collar. The deep and all consuming iron scent fills my mouth, but before I can gag, 'muscle boy number one' presses his arm callously against my throat, effectively rendering me dependent on his every move just for a proper breath of air. I struggle in vain for a few moments, vaguely aware of the minute but cold, steel press of a menacing knife against my side.

The man is grinning at this point, and I can see out of the corner of my eye as he jerks his knife wielding arm, pushing the sharp edge with just enough force to bite into the skin along my protruding ribs. I gasp, water rising in my eyes unbidden. "L-listen…" I gasp out, "I don't know what my brother d-did, but he's really not himself right now. If he hustled you, I'll give you whatever the amount he took…honest."

The man abruptly jams his elbow deeper against my throat, cutting off my words. My lungs scream for air and the heat in my cheeks increases as I claw desperately on his unrelenting grip. My gaze strays for a second to the facial expressions of the two men in the background. They're both grinning. What smug bastards! That's certainly the Dean in me talking…if only I could be more like him. He'd know what to do right now, he'd know what to say. He wouldn't be taking this kind of crap. It's my own damn fault that I seem to walk straight into my own undoing.

"We don't want your money, _Sammy."_ He hisses into my ear, his words drenched with malice and a foreboding promise of pain. If it sends a shiver down my spine, it's only because it _is_ kind of chilly outside for the middle of the afternoon, not because it genuinely gives me the creeps.

At last, 'muscles' lets up a bit on the choking and I sputter and gasp for breath. I stare wildly from one person to the other, trying to figure out what move to make next. "I-I don't understand…"

The knife all at once pushes harder, slicing easily against the outline of my bottom rib, leaving a sickly warm trail of blood in its wake. I successfully, but barely, contain the small cry that forms in the back of my throat (suck it up, Winchester!) and instead attempt to control the unsteady spurts of my panting lest I cause the blade to sink even deeper. I can't afford to land myself a hospital trip, I can't do that to Dean so soon after Dad's…well, you know.

The man leans forward, his nose almost touching my own. I can smell is cheap cologne by now. Let me tell you, it's repulsive, damn near nauseating in fact. "You see, we had a nice, long chat with Dean-o last night at the bar. After all, you Winchester boys are the center of many a conversation in our world. Especially after word of John's death got out."

I bet the look on my face is one of sheer and utter comical shock. I gape, open mouthed, back at him. "Wait…you're hunters?" I hate it when I do this, ask questions I know the answers to only to feel unreservedly stupid. Classic Sam, easily duped. God, I'm an idiot…

The man chuckles, the cold knife tip lowering to linger just above my belly button. I draw in my stomach, practically engraving myself into the brick wall in order to pull away. It's no use, though, he's just too strong and the blood loss from my head wound is fast making me dizzy. Now is _so_ not the time to faint. "Bingo, Sammy. We've heard a lot about you. Always had the utmost respect for your pop, you know. So when we ran into Dean last night, we thought, 'hey, why not have a few drinks?'

A lump forms in my throat; I do not like the direction this conversation is taking. A part of me knows what he's going to say next, the part of me that's always known this kind of thing would happen eventually. "Mind you, you're doting brother was very drunk by the time he started talking about you." I stare despondently as he grins down on me and all I can do is brace myself for his words. "But lord, did that boy say just the most _interesting_ things. Started going on and on about visions and psychics and special powers."

I bite back a scream as the knife unexpectedly slides across my middle, a choking sound escaping my lips in its place. "Tell me, _Sam,_ just how long did you think you could last in the hunting world as one of _them."_

I'm coherent enough to realize that this is far worse than I initially suspected. These aren't just people my brother had carelessly hustled; these are hunters, vindictive hunters at that, whom he had even _more_ recklessly opened up to. Had he, indeed, just been too drunk and overwhelmed by grief to properly know what he was doing, or better, saying? Or was this something more? Because surely, Dean wouldn't wave my secret around in the faces of people he knew to be hunters, ones that would come after me….would he? I nearly fail at beating back the undesired tears threatening to leak from my eye lashes. "You-you don't understand. It's not what you think…"

But his damn elbow is back again and I find myself once more struggling to draw in air. "It's exactly what we think, you abomination! You've got demonic powers! You're _stained, _and _filthy _with the supernatural." The hunter hisses spitefully. I can't help but flinch at each and every word. It's like every stray fear I'd ever had is being ruthlessly confirmed. But what really drives in the last nail is that these men aren't just pulling words out of their ass. No, they'd gotten these ideas from somewhere…from Dean. Suddenly, I don't much feel like putting up a fight anymore. If that's what Dean thinks, than what other reason do I have to stick around? What other reason could there possibly be to integrate myself into the life of someone who so obviously doesn't want anything to do with me?

I barely hear what the hunter says next, I'm too busy drowning amidst my own personal anguish and the unbearable revelation that the one person I have left has practically handed me over on a silver platter.

Lamb to the slaughter.

It leaves a cold, empty sensation deep inside, in a place that used to be touched with the warmth only a big brother can supply. "You know better than anyone what has to be done, _Sammy._" Then, as if to console me in some sick, twisted way, the hunter adds with only a hint of remorse, "It's what John would have wanted."

The mention of Dad leaves me breathless and reeling all over again.

Then, I flinch just in time for the knife to promptly bury itself deep into my abdomen, all the way until the point at which I can feel the cracked leather of its hilt against my torn skin.

I whimper as the knife is twisted brutally and is subsequently roughly removed with a terrible, stomach-turning squelch. A ringing begins to reverberate within my ears, the pain so intense it's unfathomable. I don't know how anyone can feel this way and still be alive. It's the kind of pain that makes me want to crawl into Dean's arms and wait for him to make it go away, to make it better. Because that's what he does, right? Makes it better? It only hurts more when I think of how that won't be happening this particular time. I'm going to die, alone, in this god forsaken alley, surrounded by our dirty laundry.

The men are long gone by the time I fall to my knees, wetness instantly seeping throughout the fabric of my jeans. I don't notice though. All I can focus on is the warm, slippery redness drenching my hands after I pull them away from my body. It drips in sporadic blobs onto the pavement, running between my fingers and well past my wrists. I sway precariously, my vision tunneling and at last becoming completely black. "Dean…"

And then the pain and shock at last seems to take me and I know no more.

_Tbc…_

**I swear it's not a death fic! Lol, doesn't necessarily mean I can't pull on your heart strings a bit, though, right? ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks so much for all the comments for the first two chapters! You're all too kind! In this part we get a somewhat glimpse of a more desirable Dean, because I've really put him in the dog house in this fic (I do love him, truly! It's just for plot's sake I swear) *wink*. In the next chapter after this one, though, we will get an explanation from dear ole Dean-o, but hopefully he's not too late…**

Part 3:

Dad brought us to a lake one weekend for Dean's birthday when I was ten. The weather hadn't been great, sure, and the supposed beach was more mud and rocks than actual sand. Nevertheless, they were some of the best days of my entire life. Dean had been _so_ happy back then, his laughter genuine and easy to elicit, he'd even taught me how to do a flip off of the dock. No one else ever had that much patience with me at that age. I remember having a contest to see who could hold their breath the longest. Dean always won, of course. But between you and me, I think Dad _let_ him. As for Dad…well it was as if the man had been a different person for that moment in time. The sorrow had leaked away from his eyes and just for that one weekend, it was easy to pretend we were a normal family who did normal things. The lake water had been heavy and murky, and if one dove far enough, it could be like he or she was trapped in a never ending pit, with miles of water pushing in on every side.

That's how I feel now, like I'm under water…drowning, but unable to fight it. It's like the real world is muffled and hidden behind thick, persistent glass. The sensation leaves me speculating exactly how Dean is always able to stay under for so long without suffocating, assuming he doesn't actually cheat as I incessantly, although good naturedly, imply. I can feel, vaguely, a burning deep within me, as if someone has slid their hand into my abdomen and left a scorching, hot coal behind.

It's agonizing.

But no matter how much I want to, I'm unable to scream. I'm unable to move. And I'm unable to even speak.

I've had nightmares like this in the past, where I was helpless to stop something terrible from happening and could only remain motionless as my family died before my eyes. I'd wake up, sweaty and in tears, only to discover a frantic Dean right there by my bed side, waiting and ready to soothe the terror away. Why isn't that happening now? Why is Dean not waking me up?

Similar to a freight train, the memories come barreling into me without forewarning. Oh god…Dad's dead! Has been dead for weeks! I can see him, lying on the hospital floor, the coffee falling from my numb fingers…

My heart slows as I realize the fact that I still have Dean, that I'm not alone. Thank God! Except…Dean doesn't want me. He thinks I'm a freak. He told those hunters about me. But that can't be right, can it? Dean would never…

Suddenly, my drowning analogy seems enormously lackluster. It's more like _sinking…_

_Sinking_ into depths where I'm aware I won't be able to return from. Due to some reason, I can't bring myself to care. Why not just let myself sink? Why not let reality just push me farther and farther down? Dean would be so disappointed in my willingness to give up. I mean, in the past he would've been. I envision his reaction now to be very, very different. Maybe he wouldn't care at all. He probably doesn't, that's why I'm not waking up. He doesn't want me to.

God, I'm so confused.

I suspect perhaps some of those coals have been forced into my head as well, bouncing around chaotically inside my brain. That's what it sure feels like anyways.

In the distance, it seems, millions of miles away, I can abruptly hear a voice calling my name. "SAM!"

It sounds _so _familiar. But it can't be…

I guess I didn't realize before just how cold I am until the sensation of warm, albeit calloused and rough, hands are suddenly touching me, pushing at my hair and running along the lengths of my body. I want to scream and pull away as soon as the mysterious touch reaches my stomach, their fingers, although surprisingly gentle, are still tremendously excruciating. Maybe whoever it is will remove the burrowed coals from my flesh. God, I hope so.

The cry catches in my throat. In lieu of it comes a feeble choking noise, a mere half whimper. But that can't possibly be me, can it?

The voice is back again, carrying with it a heart breaking, cracking tone that is peculiarly demanding and pleading all at the same time. "Shhh, Sammy, it's ok. Just stay with me, man. You're going to be all right. You're going to be fine."

Dean?

I'm losing my mind now, because Dean can't be here. Dean can't be talking to me like this, with so much raw concern and thinly veiled love. He doesn't want me, I'm _unwanted_, _unneeded, a hindrance, a freak…_

Why is it so hard for me to grasp this? Why can't I get it into my stupid head?

Yet, here I am, obviously hallucinating the older brother I'll never have again. I pray to sink faster, to sink farther, and to just become _numb_ to all this clinging pain.

An unendurable pressure begins to be exerted against my middle, shoving the hot coals deeper than I thought feasible into me. I can taste blood in my mouth, on my tongue. Is it possible for my insides to be _burning_ like this? Why isn't anyone putting out the fire? Surely someone has noticed by now…

"-am! Stay with me! Don't you dare…" Not-Dean is talking once more. I can't quite focus on all the words, though. They come across jumbled and muted, like when we were kids and made those silly, fake telephones out of tin cans and string. It'd been Dean's idea. We thought we were being so _clever_. Me? I'd just loved the fact that I possessed a direct line to my elder brother, a connection between us that lead to him and only him. It was special…is special.

But this is NOT Dean. Because Dean hates me, Dean wouldn't beg me to stay. Would he?

I surprise myself when all at once I manage to lift the dauntingly heavy lids covering my eyes.

Unbelievably, Dean's face is _right there_, so close to mine that he's practically on top of me. Don't get me wrong, though, because personal space kind of went up in flames alongside my nursery twenty odd years ago, so Dean and I really don't have any issues went it comes to being in each other's breathing room. But let me tell you, this is _close_, even for us.

I can't help the cough that tears itself from my throat, or the subsequent wetness that slides between my lips and dribbles onto my chin. From the devastated look on my imagined older brother's face, I have a sneaking suspicion it's blood. I guess you don't take a knife in the stomach without some serious consequences.

Fingers are immediately wiping at my face in the next moment, lingering over my pulse point and supporting my neck. Why is it so hard to just keep my head from lolling? I'm so tired…

"SAM! No sleeping! Hey…" my eyes snap open. I hadn't even realized I'd closed them to begin with. Everything was just…running together.

Dean looks terrible. Or, I mean, Not-Dean looks terrible? His face is haggard, the pallor to his skin sickly and wan. His emerald green eyes are red rimmed and shining with an emotion I can't quite seem to identify. The fact is I've never seen him like this, I've never witnessed him when this emotionally compromised. Especially not since the crash, not since Dad…well, you know. He's been too walled up behind righteous anger and frustration, too focused on hiding behind alcohol and violence. Too busy avoiding me…

That's the instance in which the small hope barely clinging to life within me is ruthlessly murdered. I can't face this right now. I can't face what my own mind has conjured in my last moments when I know that it's not real. A shiver tears down my spine. I wonder if Not-Dean can see the fire ants crawling and swarming all over my body. If he can, he's being unusually calm about it. I know for a fact Dean hates bugs, despite his protest, particularly ants.

But this isn't truly Dean, so why does it matter?

With a last, desperate gasp, I somehow manage to form words, the coppery, thick blood gurgling in my throat and nearly choking me. "I-I'm sorry…" I whisper. I know it's not really him, not really my brother, but god…I want it to be _so_ badly. More than anything I want it to really be him! Even so, I had to say it, because I am sorry. Sorry for all the trouble I've caused, sorry for all the times I've let him and Dad down, sorry for not being able to help him with what he's going through.

Not-Dean tries to shush me, his hands pushing at my hair and cupping my cheeks, babbling on about an ambulance and to save my strength, saying we can have this discussion when I'm feeling better, saying I've nothing to apologize for, saying that _he's_ the sorry one. It makes me want to cry. He's so real.

My sibling beams warmly down at me. It's so authentic, so _Dean,_ and it's unquestionably the first smile I've gotten from him in ages. Who cares if it is slightly strained and marked by severe fret? The coals are flickering now, the flames weakly dying. While the relief is joyous, I'm smart enough to comprehend that it is not a good sign.

I let the darkness sweep me away, then, without putting up any resistance, even when I can barely make out Not-Dean wailing my name. It's almost enough to make me stay. Almost.

In a fleeting second, one in which an intolerable wind whistles within my ears and swirls all around me, I am suddenly staring down at my own lifeless body and the huddled form of my sobbing older brother above my bloody and broken figure.

_TBC…_

**Yes, it is indeed going to be longer than initially planned *smile* and in the next part, we get an insight into Dean's apparent betrayal, what went down at the bar, and what will become of those pesky hunters who tried to kill our Sammy! Remember, it's not a death fic, I promise! I'm a sucker for a happy ending lol**


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm SO EXCITED! I literally just found out that the AVETT BROTHERS are coming to the SIU arena here in Carbondale in October! And I'm getting tickets! They're my favorite band ever! Hehe… soooo anyways I hope the direction I've taken this story in isn't disappointing :). I've tried to keep everyone in character, lol. I enjoyed writing this chapter the most because it gave me the chance to write a grief stricken, frantic Dean, which is so unlike how we usually see him on the show. I tried to make it believable for him, but feel free to tell me if I got it all wrong *shy smile*, it'll help me in the future. Thank you, you wonderful reviewers! They are really all of my inspiration, so each one is much appreciated *grin* There will be an epilogue, so another chapter! Yay! Happy reading! Warning: Dean uses some 'colorful' language *wink***

**-Punkin**

Part four:

I'm losing chunks of time. Or maybe I'm merely having trouble grasping what is happening right before my own two eyes. A mysterious force keeps tugging at me, trying to pull me even farther away from my body, even farther away from Dean, than I've already drifted. It's all virtually too much…

I'm resisting this last pull for an indefinite reason.

Due to some inexplicable cause, something is pulling me just as equally as hard to the other side, the side that is all _reality, blood, pain,…Dean._

So while I'm an idiot at times, I'm smart enough to realize that I'm hovering precariously in between the living and the dead. Funny how Dean was in this same position only a few weeks ago, and I can't help but think that if only it had been me _that_ time, so much of this could've been avoided. Dean and Dad would've been ok, they would've had each other, they would've known how to be what each of them needed. A feat I can never seem to accomplish. I never say the right things, never make the right gestures.

Anyhow, one moment I was staring, a heavy lump forming in my throat as I watched Dean break down right in front of me. It was terrible, seeing him so distraught and not being able to do anything about it. The paramedics had arrived and had been forced to physically remove him from where my body lay, half crumpled and cradled in his arms. He had to have realized that they were there with only the sole purpose of helping me and that he was simply getting in the way. Nonetheless, Dean fought against them and clung to my figure, saying my name in a litany like a god damn soldier saying his last prayer on the battle field.

I had become conscious of two facts in that instant, while I stood by, gazing as they began to load 'me' into the ambulance, yelling indistinguishable medical jargon, and as Dean broke free of the men restraining him and practically clawed his way near animalistic like to my side. One: Not-Dean was actually REAL Dean. And two: I was dying.

Things faded out after that. I think I might just be losing the ability to anchor myself every now and then, probably depending on the state in which my tangible body is in and how close to the edge I get. But after the ambulance doors closed, the next thing I'm aware of is the fact that I'm standing, here, in the middle of a no name hospital waiting room with my older brother pacing back and forth in front of the double doors leading into the ER. Really not a practical place to be, except by the look of him it doesn't appear as if anything, man _or_ beast, can drag him away.

My heart (is that possible, considering I'm not even in my body?) stutters as I take in all the blood. It's soaked into the front of his shirt, on the waist band of his jeans. The hands currently running through his short, blond, wayward hair are covered as well, flecks smeared transversely on his neck and face from where he'd carelessly placed his fingers. Dean never can sit still, particularly in situations when it is evident that _sitting _is all he can possibly offer.

A sickly sensation encompasses me, a pit rolling into a tightened knot inside my stomach. The blood's not his. It's _mine_.

The scarce few other people in the waiting room have fixed him with wide eyed, concerned stares. Does he even care that he looks like an extra from a cheap horror flick? He's scaring these poor people half to death. I don't know why he's even here anyway.

My eyes burn.

This should be what he wanted, right? It's all for the best. Those hunters did us a favor. Sure, Dean _had_ been drunk when he'd ousted me. But my brother's no light weight. He could drink a bar dry and still be able to shoot the empty glasses off a fence post. Inebriated or not, he had to have known what he'd been saying. Right? I mean, he _does_ look awfully upset, green orbs wild with indisputable distress and unconcealed anguish. I haven't seen him in this fashion since…who the hell am I kidding? I've _never_ seen him like this. And that's coming from a long career of witnessing sides to my older brother I'd rather have stayed unacquainted with.

Maybe it's just the remnants of the ridiculous sense of duty my brother has towards me. His 'job'. Yep, that's me! _Protect Sammy, look out for Sammy! _He never deserved that…

The bitterness accompanying these thoughts is quickly drowned by the sorrow in their wake.

No matter what's just recently happened, or my much clearer view of things, I just can't stomach the sight of this any longer. "Dean, just sit down, man. You're going to run yourself into the ground. You're really freaking these people out."

I know he can't hear me, of course, but it doesn't stop me from trying. Dean quits pacing, though, much to my surprise. His mental state is getting dangerously close to self harm; after all, you don't spend your entire life idolizing someone without coming to recognize those kinds of signs. Just when I'm certain he's about to bury his fist into the wall (and, mind you, I still don't understand why he's so upset), his hand pauses mid air, eyes narrowing to glare at the vivid red stains dried on his flesh.

I step closer, reaching out and almost touching him, but hesitating as Dean begins to tremble. Are those tears? No…it can't be. Dean doesn't cry! And most certainly not at my expense. I'm pretty sure I'm not hallucinating though, having established that this is, in fact, my real brother. Yet, here he is, openly weeping. With _witnesses._

Perhaps I hadn't been stabbed at all, maybe I'd just slipped and fell down the god damn rabbit hole. Because nothing is making any sense. Dean has always said that for a 'college boy' I can sure be dense sometimes. I never really knew what he meant, except I think I'm starting to.

All at once (or maybe I've known all along), it doesn't matter in the least how _unneeded_, _unwanted_, or _freakish_ I may be, even in my own sibling's eyes. All that matters is that I honestly, physically _can't_ leave Dean in this kind of state. I love him too much to do that, even if the allure of just letting it all go is calling me, the sweet song practically irresistible. I owe it to my brother to see this through, to allow him the chance to face up to whatever resentment he may harbor for me and to inform me of it _outright_. I'm determined to take it, no matter how scared I really am of his words, no matter how much I know it can break me. Dad always told me to end things _right,_ and god help me, that's what I'm going to do.

However, the empty void within me argues otherwise. How easy it would be to just throw myself into it and to never look back….but I can't. And I know it.

My surroundings blur around me. Whatever is happening to my body, it must not be going well. I'm not quite brave enough to go in search of wherever they've taken me physically, no doubt into the closest operating room, not to mention the fact that I'm terrified of what Dean will do in my absence. Not that he's aware of my presence or anything, and not like I could do a whole lot of good if he did, indeed, find trouble.

When everything at last settles and I have a firm grip of what is happening, it's to discover that the cavalry is finally arriving.

"Bobby!" Dean gasps out, like it's his last Hail Mary.

And there the man is, in all his grizzled glory. I can't help but smile at his appearance. He's done so much for us, especially now after Dad.

I think it shocks Bobby almost as much as it shocks me when Dean hugs the man. First crying, and now he's initiating an embrace? Willfully? Who is this man and what has he done with my brother?

Bobby pats Dean on the back, trying to calm him as he begins rambling incoherently. I catch bits and pieces (I'm an expert at Dean-speak), and don't much like what I hear. Maybe there's more to what happened last night…it's painful to bring myself to hope.

I quickly move out of the way as Dean allows himself to be man handled into a chair. "About time," I mumble, "Been trying to get him to sit for the last hour."

The other waiting room occupants watch on in hushed curiosity. I wish I could tell them to mind their own business and leave us alone. Couldn't they see Dean was at his breaking point? God, I wish he could see me, just for one moment, just so I could get rid of that look in his eyes.

Bobby's telling Dean to take deep breaths now, saying to start at the beginning. "I can't understand a damn word coming out of your mouth, boy."

Dean's shaking again, with less intensity, but my eyes are sharp enough to see it. He rubs his hands over and over again on his jeans. I wonder if he's trying to start a fire or something. Then I realize he's trying to wipe all of my blood off.

It's heart breaking.

"They-they put something in my drink, Bobby, I swear!" Dean half sobs, looking up at the older man as if it is the most important thing he could possibly say. I am, meanwhile, silently sent in a tail spin, and can merely listen as Dean informs Bobby of his rather heavy drinking habits of late, of how he'd gone to the bar last night, no big deal, and ran into some 'hunting buddies of Dad's'.

"One beer, Bobby, I swear! They bought me one fucking beer! And it was like…" Dean's breath hitches, words catching in his throat, "I couldn't control what I was saying. Words were just…just _pouring_ out of me and I couldn't stop myself! I-I told them abou-about Sam…about his visions, Bobby. God, how could I do that!"

Bobby tries to comfort Dean, his hand rubbing circles on the man's back, patiently waiting for my brother to compose himself. "I mean…I know things have been rough between me and Sammy. I…I haven't been dealing. Not well. But you got to believe me, Bobby. I wouldn't _ever_ tell those hunters those things on purpose, I…I just can't believe I'd be so _stupid_!"

Bobby opens his mouth, surely about to protest against the blatant self loathing. Dean takes a lot onto his shoulders. Sometimes I forget how alike we are in this fact. Sometimes I guess we BOTH forget that as brothers, we can share the load _together_…

Dean shakes his head, tears filling his eyes and his hands balling into white knuckled fists. A woman walking nearby takes notice and gives us a wide berth. "Next thing I know, I'm waking up in our motel room, Sam gone, and with the world's worst hangover." He glances up, eyes skirting over me. For a second, I'm convinced he can actually see me. "He went out to do laundry, Bobby. Fucking _laundry_. Can you believe that? I'm busy getting drunk and passing out and he goes out to do my laundry?" I think we all hear the undercurrent of "I'm such an ass hole," in his tone. It's hard to miss.

Bobby remains unspoken during the small rant, dark eyes sorrowful and shadowed by deep bags. We're not the only ones John's passing was hard on I guess. "It'd been hours, though, since he'd left. I knew something was wrong, I just knew those damn hunters had done _something_." His voice drops several octaves, hovering in the danger zones of 'protective big brother.' My heart clenches, I haven't heard him sound like this is forever.

Dean meets Bobby's gaze, bottom lip quivering, "I found them at the same bar, all three of the bastards, boozing and laughing it up! Fucking _celebrating!_ They had Sam's fucking blood on their god damn clothes!"

Dean tore from his sitting position, taking up his frantic pacing. I notice his finger nails digging deep into the skin of his blood speckled arms. All I really want to do is reach out and pull his hands away before he hurts himself. "Dean…" Bobby begins. I can tell by his voice he doesn't know what to say. How could he? What words could realistically make this better for Dean? My brother, strongest person I've ever known, is moments away from crashing and burning and writhing in his own personal DEFCON One. There is NO talking him down when he's like this.

Dean stops pacing and cuts Bobby off, his mouth curling into a vicious snarl, "I wanted to kill them, Bobby. Hell, I _should've_ killed them. The beating they got was fucking nothing!"

"But you didn't." Bobby remarks rhetorically.

Dean looks away, directly at me for the second time. The sensation that follows is haunting, I can feel his green gaze boring all the way through me, as if peering straight into my soul. He nods softly, grief apparent at the mention of my name, "Sam…he wouldn't have wanted me to. Plus, I knew he was counting on me. It was my fault he got hurt in the first place. After they told me where he was, I left them alive." His nose wrinkles in disgust at this, and there's no doubt in my mind that if Dean could, he'd murder all of those men with only his bare hands. He continues speaking then, lingering just above a whisper, "They stabbed him, Bobby. Gut wound." Dean visibly swallows, green emeralds haunted, "There was so much blood…"

His eyes flutter close, what little color remaining in his face draining rapidly away. "I'll never forgive myself. For this, for the way I've been acting. What if I hadn't found him in time, Bobby? What if…what if I never get to tell him how much he means to me? How much I…oh god, I practically fucking handed Sammy over to those men on a plate!" A real sob rips from his throat, his face burying itself in his hands.

Bobby's on his feet in an instant, trying to offer the little comfort he can provide. I've been standing in the same spot throughout the entire ordeal, shell shocked at my brother's tragic words. Could it be? Was it truly just a drug induced accident? Does Dean really still care? Does he really still want me around?

When I stretch my arm out, intent on wiping the tears from Dean's face, my fingers go straight through his wet cheek. It makes me want to cry right along with him.

The doctor is calling out my fake name of the week now, causing Dean and Bobby's heads to snap up, faces desperate and anxious. I think I'm ready, though. For this, for what is to come. Because for the first time in a long time, I might just have something to fight for.

_To be concluded in the epilogue…_

** Ahh, so we come to see that poor Dean isn't such a Judas as so suspected There are, of course, just certain lines he doesn't cross, especially when it comes to Sam's safety. In the epilogue, expect some massive brotherly schmoop and bonding (my favorite) squee! Review? Pwetty, pwetty please? Lol**

** P.S. I am now a registered beta reader :), so check out my beta profile if you're in the market *wink* I'd be happy to help any writers!**


	5. Chapter 5

**I present the conclusion! Yes, a bit sad :(. But alas, it must come to an end. Happy reading! P.S. Livejournal has really been raining on my parade with all this crashing lol**

** -Punkin**

**Epilogue:**

It's been three days and I still can't get used to the sight of my immobile, pitiful looking body lying on that stupid hospital bed. I don't think Dean has been able to either. He keeps doing this thing where he stares practical holes into my face (well, my real face that is. Why is it these kinds of things are just all in a day for us? I think it's time to step back and do some serious evaluating, because honestly, I'm completely redefining out of body experience here) like if only he looks hard enough, I'll wake the hell up already.

There's really nothing Dean or Bobby can do though, at this point. Everything is riding on me and my ability (or inability, as it seems) to return to the land of the living, which is one hundred times harder than it sounds. But of course it is, because that's always the way it goes. And while I most certainly haven't been standing around with my thumb up my ass, my relentless attempts to return to my physical self (so weird) have all ended with me in some pretty embarrassing positions and feeling as equally as stupid.

Dean keeps asking the doctor when I'll wake up, hasn't once used the word _if_, and why it's taking so long. In fact, if he _can't_ ask every damn hour (and trust me, I've nothing to do but keep track), than he promptly seeks out the poor woman so she can feed him the same reassurances she's been spouting the past few days. "His body suffered major trauma, Dean. This is just his way of recovering. He'll wake up soon, when he's ready; you've just got to be patient." Every so often, she throws in some _serious_ medically inclined phrases, if only to appease the worry radiating off my brother.

Apparently, our friendly neighborhood hunter pals nicked my liver when they decided their knife would enjoy an impromptu tour of my insides. It caused a massive internal hemorrhage, resulting in dangerous levels of blood loss. Evidently, if Dean hadn't found me and called for help when he did, I wouldn't have made it. Nearly didn't, in fact. Those black outs I mentioned? Chunks of time I was losing? Well, that would be me _crashing_. Yep, full on heart _stopping_. Once, in the ambulance, and again on the operating table. I guess Dean may be right when he claims I really _don't_ do anything half assed.

Speaking of Dean, when he'd been informed of all this, his already sickly color had worsened considerably. Bobby had laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, in which my brother had readily leaned back into, looking as if he were approaching the point of passing out. He hadn't been comforted in the least either, even when he'd been assured that my odds were rather good, and, assuming I didn't acquire an infection, I'd probably make a full recovery.

This notion seems a bit frustrating when it's now days later and I can't quite seem to take back the reins. I hate this. I hate watching Dean not eat, not sleep (unless downright forced by Bobby), and generally forgo all personal hygiene and comfort in favor of remaining stead fast by my bed side. It's enlightening, witnessing this kind of excessive devotion.

I find it ironic how I've been trying to get him to talk ever since Dad…well, you know, and in each and every one of those attempts I'd well and truly crashed and burned, yet now, while I'm virtually dead to the world, he's chatting my ears off. I get lost in his voice at times, unable to do anything except listen as he tells my comatose body things I've never known before. He talks about Mom, about when I was baby and how happy she'd been, how happy we'd _all_ been. He talks about Dad too, much to my astonishment, and the pain in his voice is almost palpable. But I have a sneaking suspicion that Dean needs to voice all of these thoughts out loud as much as I need to hear them. It's like he thinks if he stops talking, I'll just drift away.

I'm almost scared that's true.

So…I listen. And I watch. And I try with all my might not to let go.

Bobby's left the room for a bit, mumbling and grumbling to himself after another botched mission of 'you're going to get some shut eye or I'm going to _make_ you get some shut eye, boy'. It was amusing at first. I'd just assumed Dean would come to his senses, of course. But here it's day three, and it's not so funny anymore. I've tried myself to communicate with my brother. I tell him, over and over again, that I'll be all right, that I am coming back to him, that I'm not going to give up, that I know what happened wasn't his fault and that he needs to stop wearing himself down because soon, there won't be anything left for me to return to.

A fat lot of good my words do, since, surprise surprise, he can't hear me! I'm considering simply throwing myself onto my latent body. Perhaps I'd, I don't know, merge with it? God, this is ridiculous.

The sound of Dean abruptly clearing his throat penetrates my wild contemplations. When I look up, my eyes zero in on the sight of him awkwardly grasping my hand in his. My heart begins to pound, whatever he's about to say, it has to be important. After all, my brother doesn't just go crazy with the blatant, deliberate gestures of affection any given day for any given reason, and hand holding most definitely falls under this paradigm.

He's gazing distantly at the bed sheets, as if searching for the appropriate words. "You know I'm terrible at this kind of shit, Sammy."

I snort. That's the understatement of the god damn century.

Dean chuckles softly, probably thinking the same thing. "But, ah…Doc seems to think that you can hear every word I've been saying. Tells me that, uh, maybe…maybe you're just waiting to hear the right thing, you know?"

I draw nearer to his side, close enough to observe his fingers tighten around mine, close enough to perceive the confliction in his gaze. I know the feeling all too well. The constant battle between needing to say what you feel and not being able to properly articulate it. It's the same game I've been playing my entire life, and it's nice to realize I'm not alone.

"Dean…it's ok." I whisper. He doesn't have to put himself through this. I don't _want_ for him to put himself through this.

Shocker he doesn't listen (no, really). Not like he would've heeded my words even if he _could_ hear me. "You've been right about a lot of things, Sammy. I mean, you've sat here and listened to me ramble on about just how wrong I've been. How messed up I've been since Dad…" Dean clears his throat once more, chewing for a moment on his bottom lip. "God, I can't believe you're making me do this whole chick flick thing." He draws in a deep breath, his thumb circling on the back of my hand, "I just…I just need you to know…"

I'm riveted. A freaking Wendigo could tear down the hospital hallways and I still wouldn't be able to look away. "What, Dean?" I encourage gently.

My brother at last brings his eyes up from their fixed spot on the bed and looks instead at my lax, wan face. The immense amount of intensity emanating from him, the sheer sincerity of it all, completely staggers me. A lump forms inside my throat. But even before he finishes his sentence, I can vaguely feel a heated sensation pulling deep within me, tugging me forward toward even greater warmth.

"We've…we've lost Mom. We've lost Dad." Dean sniffs, eyes a bit watery, "I can't lose you too! I just…I want you to know how much I need you, Sam. I-," Dean shakes his head, "I can't do this without you, man…"

I swallow, looking down and away sorrowfully, "Yes you can." I mumble. Because it's true. Dean and Dad…they could've done without me. They would've been _better_ that way.

"…and I don't want to." My head immediately snaps up then, nearly giving me whip lash. It's the same words that convinced me to leave Stanford that fateful night (was that only a year ago?), the same words that brought us back together and set us on this god forsaken journey. The same words that pierce me the deepest. Because Dean _wants_ me. He wants me to be with him, he wants us to be brothers. Our entire lives, that's been the most important thing to me.

I think I must stop breathing all together when he leans closer to my physical ear, face hardening and voice darkening into Dad's 'drill sergeant' tone. "I god damn _won't_ do this without you, you hear me? _I won't_. So you can either get your ass in gear, Sammy, and wake the hell up, or you can kiss us both good bye."

All at once, that distant warmth becomes overwhelmingly blistering, its intensity reaching all the way down to the tips of my toes. The room begins to dizzyingly spin, around and around, my skin fast becoming numb and tingly. I think I might be screaming, I've just _got _to be screaming, it hurts so bad! The acute ringing in my ears, however, prevents all else from being distinguished.

It's as if I'm being split in two. Right down the middle, pulled ruthlessly, _brutally_ apart…

As rapidly as the agony starts, though, it ends just as quickly, and I'm suddenly being launched head first into a thick, viscous abyss.

I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't feel.

Until I'm gasping for air, on my back and springing into a sitting position, in the same hospital bed I've been glaring at for three days now. "Dean…" his name slides easily from between my lips, out before I've even attained a proper breath, out before my surroundings have even ceased to spin.

"Sam! Hey, whoa, Sammy, breathe! Hey, it's ok, it's ok Sammy. Shh, come here…" I dimly make out the desperate call for a doctor, and honestly? I could care less. The most important thing right now is my brother, who is _here_, who is _now_, and has been such all along, for all this time.

He's talking still, trying to calm me, trying to get me to breathe as he breathes. My face buries itself deep into his shoulder, my fingers clutching at his shirt. I don't mind if I can't breathe, I really don't. I just want to take this all in. And for a single moment, even as every damn thing is confusing, even as nothing makes sense, it's vividly clear at the same time. I smile against the fabric of his leather jacket.

"I know, Dean," I gasp out amidst his frantic ramblings, yet I know he hears me. God, he finally hears me…. "I know."

_The End_

**Awwww :), boys you kill me! So Sam was able to return to his body when he hears how much he's needed. Happy ending! Yay! Yes, shamelessly unoriginal with the 'three days' thing, but why not? I've had such a wonderful time writing this story, and the reviews were even MORE wonderful lol Thank you, readers! I'll be posting again soon, though. I know Dean may have been out of character (I write the boys as chick flickier than in actuality) but I like Dean a little less manly sometimes lol. Sam's POV was a fun experiment too! Tough, but fun all the same. Thanks once again! I hope the ending was gratifying, I left it open enough for a possible sequel though *wink***


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